


All for Myself

by Ahmerst



Category: DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, post route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3789313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahmerst/pseuds/Ahmerst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Aoba sees Clear's face for the first time long after the fall of the tower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All for Myself

**Author's Note:**

> I can't recall the exact prompt for this, and the person who made it since deleted their account. If I recall correctly, it was Aoba going down a route that wasn't Clear's (though I left it vague) and seeing Clear's face for the first time only in advanced age.

When Aoba looked back on it all, he felt like there were people meant to be more important in his life than they had been. People destined for pivotal roles and paths instead of the white noise background of his life.

Koujaku was still, well, Koujaku. Voice warm and friendly, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes deep set when he smiled. He didn’t cut hair anymore, not since the tremor got bad. The marble-cloudy cataracts didn’t help either. Aoba visited him at the home when he could, listened to him complain about the food they served, reminisced over Granny’s far superior culinary skills. The way he breathed worried Aoba, the low and drawn out wheeze that of an old dog.

Mink was gone in the way that old classmates were. Probably dead, but you never knew. A name that surfaced in one’s shower thoughts or before bed. Like a ragged thread from an old shirt, something you wanted to pull at. Something that would be made worse by doing exactly that.

Noiz existed less as a real person and more as a figurehead. Someone whose image you associated with wrappers and branding, not a person. Like a face on a coin seen again and again until it no longer registered. There was the odd rumor about him, eccentricities on level with Willy Wonka, and Aoba ignored them all. Except for the one about the secretive legal battle about his fortune being left to a rabbit sanctuary.

Aoba shook his head at the thought to dispel it, looking up at the ceiling of the waiting room. The poorly upholstered seat made his ass hurt. Everything made his ass hurt now that there was less than ever to it. He concentrated on the ache of his hip to distract himself from it. Most of his life seemed to pass this way now, one pain serving as a distraction from another.

He mused on the revelation until his attention was pulled back by a nurse, her smile sweet yet clinical as she stood before him.

“Mr. Seragaki,” she said, slow and clear in a way that stated she’d said it several times already. “We’re all ready when you are.”

\---

The examination room smelled like old newspaper and antiseptic, and the doctor didn’t tell Aoba anything he hadn’t guessed on his own. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good. No worse than what was to be expected at his age. He left with two new prescriptions for pills he couldn’t read the names of, let alone pronounce.

The pharmacy piped in tinny music as he sat again, staring at his feet. Orthopedic slippers didn’t become him.

The boots that encroached on his space weren’t much better. Maybe once white, they were now a permanent tea-stained sort of gray. The cracked leather flecked with dirt, the laces faded and frayed.

“It’s good to see you again, master,” said the owner of the shoes.

Aoba smiled in an automatic way at the voice, clean and clear as it had been since the first day he heard it. Untouched by the roughness of age.

“It’s been awhile,” Aoba said.

The chair next to him creaked as Clear sat. His white gloves tapping an empty rhythm against his thighs.

“Yes, not since Ren,” Clear started before thinking better of it.

Ren. It had been that long, hadn’t it?

Nothing could compare to losing Mizuki, Aoba told himself that long ago. But then he’d lost Granny, and he knew then there was nothing greater than that.

Until he lost Ren.

Nothing could be worse than that. He couldn’t allow it.

Clear’s tapping continued as he hummed, the sound soft and muffled behind his mask. After all these years he still wore it, and it had been decades since Aoba tried to convince him to lose it. Maybe it was that bad. Maybe it was tragic on an inherent level, something no heart, regardless of its compassion, could handle without judgement. People only liked the Phantom when his mask was on, after all.

Aoba’s tongue flicked over his lower lip. While he’d dropped the subject long ago, the curiosity remained. He wondered if it wouldn’t hurt to ask one last time. As the words shaped his tongue, he found Clear was gone. Scanning the room, Aoba soon spotted him at the counter of the pharmacy, nodding along while the pharmacist spoke.

When Clear returned, it was with a small bag, the plastic rattle of medication coming from inside of it.

“Ready when you are,” Clear said cheerily, offering his free hand to Aoba.

Aoba waved him off. “I need to wait for them to call my name.”

“They did,” Clear said.

“Ah,” Aoba said, cheeks warming with embarrassment. “I didn’t hear them.”

“I know,” Clear said. The lightness of his voice faded in the same way the yellow of his scarf had.

Aoba took Clear’s hand after that, his breath an exerted huff as he was tugged to his feet. His leg popped with a satisfyingly sick noise. Like a toy soldier being reassembled. But even in advanced age, Clear remained strong and spry. Aoba wondered exactly how old he was.

“We should catch up, don’t you think?” Clear asked.

What would they catch up on? Clear seemed untethered to the world, free floating and thoughtless as the jellyfish he loved. Aoba supposed it wouldn’t hurt to spend time with Clear. These days time was the one thing he seemed to have too much of. Or maybe too little, but either way he had nothing to fill it with other than short visits and cheesy soap operas. 

“We should,” Aoba agreed. Clear hadn’t let go of him.

“Where would you like to go?” Clear asked, squeezing Aoba’s hand in his. His glove was worn and soft, like he velveteen rabbit after too many years. 

Someplace soft and warm, Aoba wanted to say. Safe. That’s what animals did before they died. Not that Aoba thought he was about to die, but he could feel it edging the horizon. Not like a nightmare, but like a summer sunset you lingered on the porch to enjoy.

“Anywhere,” Aoba eventually said.

They walked slowly along the streets with short steps, Aoba’s pulse a dull thud in his ears, his attention unfocused as he let the world pass him by. He didn’t look at the roads or their signs, didn’t speak as Clear chattered blithely. It was only when the pungent stench of far away garbage met his nose that he came back to the present, Clear’s steps halting as they reached a small, dilapidated building.

“Home, sweet home," Clear cooed, letting go of Aoba's hand long enough to open the door and usher him inside.

The interior was a stark contrast to the exterior. The floors were polished slats of wood, the walls a clean, pale white. Bottles of all shapes and sizes glittered from the rafters, reminiscent of Christmas ornaments. There was a quiet, drowsy air to the place, like time had stopped. Not forever, but to rest.

“How quaint," Aoba commented idly as Clear set the bag of medications on a small table in the kitchen.

“I do quite enjoy it here," Clear said, voice muffled behind his mask. “Tea?"

“That would be nice," Aoba said, taking a seat.

He glanced outside as Clear began to fill a kettle with water. The sky was murky with clouds, an old newspaper rolling like a tumbleweed along a trash heap. The lightest drizzle misted the glass panes, and Aoba found his gaze drifting to Clear instead, watching as he moved to and fro, taking cups from cupboards and baked treats from the pantry that he placed on a tray. Around his wrist was a watch, the faceplate cracked.

When the tea was made and the tray brought to the table, Aoba saw the hands were stuck.

“Your medication says it needs to be taken with food," Clear said as he rifled through the big, unscrewing caps and placing the small tablets on a plate of scones that he pushed toward Aoba. “And not to operate heavy machinery, but I can’t see you doing that.”

Aoba inclined his head gratefully as he took the pills in his hand, tossing them into his mouth and washing them down with a hot mouthful of tea that burned for two seconds too long. Even after they were gone, he could still feel the shape of the pills in his throat, like little colored pebbles he wanted to cough up.

“I don't know a lot of things," Aoba said as he buttered a scone. “Like what all those pills do, or how much time I have left. And to me it doesn't matter much. But if there's one thing I would like to know, it's what you look like."

Clear stopped mid-stir of his tea, his fingers tightly gripping the spoon. Aoba took a bite of his scone. It was soft and perfectly sweet, crumbs collecting at the corner of his lips before his tongue swiped them away. He traced his eyes over the familiar details of Clear's mask, the straps and notches, the reflective lenses that showed nothing beneath them.

Clear raised a hand to run through his hair, a snow white to Aoba's silvery slate. He didn't touch his mask.

“I don't see why taking it off after all these years would matter," Clear said, voice too bright as he squared his shoulders.

“Clear, who would I tell?"

“I never said you would tell anyone. I said I don't understand the importance of it."

Aoba sighed and sipped his tea, nodding absently.

“I don't know what you look like. I've never known what you've looked like. But me? You've known since day one. Since before I knew you myself."

“But that's different!" Clear insisted.

“Why?"

“Because your face is... is nice. It's what people expect it to be."

“And yours isn't?"

Clear shook his head no.

“Well, I don't have any expectations for your face," Aoba said, and it wasn't untrue. In his mind's eye, he had no composite of Clear's appearance beneath his mask.

Clear’s hand was raised again, and this time it did touch his mask. Softly, barely there, like he expected it to crumble beneath his fingertips. 

“How old are you?” Aoba asked.

“Younger than you,” Clear answered.

“But not by much─ it can’t be my much.”

“I suppose in the long run, no. Not by much.”

Aoba sighed and dipped half of his scone in his tea. “Sometimes, I’m so tired. I want to sleep and sleep and just... keep sleeping. Then again, that’s pretty human, huh?”

Clear was quiet, both hands on his mask now.

“I don't think you have to be human to feel that way," Clear said.

His voice was crisp, the usual muffled tone gone as the latches unsnapped and the mask came off in his hand as naturally as a cicada would shed its skin.

Clear's lashes were the same pale shade as his hair, his eyes intelligent, his irises the soft pink of the inside of a conch shell. It complimented his lips and their gentle, shy curve as he tried to smile. Two dark pinpricks dotted the skin of his chin. There was nothing about him that showed his age. No lines on his face, no wear to his skin. Not the slightest freckled sunspot or sign of crow's feet.

“Oh," Aoba said, his scone sinking into his tea as a crumbled, soggy mess.

“Oh?" Clear echoed. His shoulders were slanting, drawing in on themselves, making him small and worried looking.

“I must be dead," Aoba said seriously and without fear.

“Maybe," Clear said as he set his mask next to his tea. He didn't sound particularly convinced.

“It's not as scary as I thought it would be,” Aoba confided. 

He wasn’t sure what to do first. Maybe he would go home and see if Tae was there. Or visit the Black Needle, sure that Mizuki would be doing inventory of ink or polishing glasses. He wondered how long it would take for Koujaku to join them, and when he’d run into Ren again. All the new possibilities made his head swim a little, or maybe that was his new medication kicking in.

Aoba decided he’d finish his tea and rest first. If he was dead, he probably had a lot of time on his hands to come. Best not to rush into things. He drank down the rest of his cup, his scone nothing more than a soggy pile of crumbs at the bottom now. When he stood, the swimming in his head worsened, his eyes unfocusing as white crowded the corners. He heard Clear stand more than he saw him, felt the gloved hand gripping his elbow to steady him.

“Do you mind if I lay down for a minute?” Aoba asked. He very tired and his head ached dully. Being dead was very much like being alive.

“Of course, master,” Clear said, guiding Aoba away from the table.

The dizziness had faded to a bearable fog by the time they made it to Clear’s bedroom, which was just as decorated as the rest of the house. His bed was white and fitted with clean sheets, almost hospital-looking in its appearance. Aoba belatedly toed his shoes off as Clear peeled the heavy cover back, easing beneath it before pulling the cover up to his stomach.

“You’re so selfish,” Aoba said with a gentle laugh as he looked up at Clear’s face. “Keeping those looks from me all this time.”

Clear’s cheeks colored to the same shade as his eyes.

“It’s true,” Clear admitted, the mattress dipping as he sat on it, his hand brushing Aoba’s bangs from his eyes. “I’m very selfish, more selfish than master could guess.”

“Really now?”

Clear smiled sheepishly as he moved to lay next to Aoba, the only distance between them the thickness of the cover. Aoba could smell Clear now, a faintly floral scent of a flower he couldn’t identify.

“I wanted to keep you all for myself, like all these bottles. Something for me to admire and enjoy and dote on.”

Aoba turned his head to find Clear already looking at him. Their faces were too close to do anything but kiss, so they did. Clear’s lips were soft and warm as they moved against Aoba’s, his hand resting on the slight dip of Aoba’s waist and squeezing when they pulled away after a moment, breath mixing together.

It was another tally for the afterlife. When you were old, you weren’t supposed to show this sort of affection. Old people sat in rocking chairs and held hands, looked at one another with clouded eyes and faded smiles. At most, a fleeting kiss on the cheek might be seen, but nothing more was shown in media.

But Aoba’s heart was no less capable of the fondness and love it had been in his younger years.

“I guess I could let you be a bit selfish for now,” Aoba said, his nose brushing against Clear’s, his eyelids growing too heavy to try and keep them open any longer.

For being dead, he felt more alive than he had in decades.

**Author's Note:**

> Is Aoba dead? Is he alive?
> 
> It's whatever you want it to be, baby.


End file.
